Omega (2)Submitted by Sage at 2009-07-28 16:30:34 EDT
Rating: 0.7 on 55 ratings (55 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
I wake up. “Shit, I’m late.” I think as I rush to the shower. I get myself ready. Too much makeup? Check. Perfect hair? Check. Short skirt and heels? Check. Low cut shirt and push up bra? Double check. I’m ready to go. I grab my phone, already knowing the person I want to call me never will, and head out the door.
I stop by the Exxon on my way there, picking up my usual pack of menthol cigarettes and Starbucks Double Shot. I’m gonna need it if I have to deal with these cheap, drunk, redneck bastards and their fat toothless girlfriends all night. I walk up to the clerk at the counter, he tells me I look pretty like he does every other Friday night and asks how I’m doing. “Same shit, different day,” I tell him and ask how he’s doing. “Better than some, worse than others,” he says. Everything’s the same, this conversation’s on repeat. I pay for my smokes and coffee, flash my usual smile at him and walk out the door to my car.
I arrive. I get my cashbox, check in with my manager, request my usual mozzarella sticks from the bar back, and begin setting up my cashbox. The bouncer comes up from behind me and grabs me for a hug. He lingers too long, as usual. It makes me uncomfortable but I give a forced, fake smile and refuse another lunch date, just like I do every week. The bar back comes up to me. “You holding?” I ask him. “I got that shit…lets go to the freezer.” I smoke a bowl with him and resume my spot, waiting for the idiots to arrive.
$2 waters, $3 domestics, $4 imports. Cash only, please. Shit, you already drank out of that one. Motherfucker. Give it back and Ill wait while you go pay with credit at the bar. Don’t forget to bring me your receipt, idiot. God, it’s the same bullshit every week. Desperate drunk guys over-tip (sometimes leaving $7 on a $3 beer). Insecure girls are either excellent tippers or don’t tip at all. Pretty girls always tip just the right amount.
I remember what everyone drinks and get it ready while they are walking up. No bullshit small talk, just give me your $5 and I’ll keep the change as usual, thanks. There’s the tall Marine looking dude who drinks Corona with lime. The dude with the Michelob light coozie who likes me to put the beer in the coozie for him. The dude who always gets a Bud Light for him and a Smirnoff Grape for his woman. The mustache man who gets a Coors Light for him and a Bud Light Lime for his wife. “You’re good, you,” he always says. The older man who gets Michelob Ultra four at a time—great tipper, that one. And then of course there’s always the old dude with the long hair and cowboy hat, Cowboy Mark we call him, who sits at the table to the left. He always drinks Budweiser and asks for a napkin. Once, his niece and her boyfriend asked me to be in a threesome with them. I refused. She was fat and he had maybe five teeth. Fuck no.
The hot cocktail waitress with perfect , real tits who loves me and serves Jell-o shooters always comes up to me to bitch about how there are never enough people in the bar. Once, the Asian dude who always drinks Michelob Ultra, told her he was going to fuck the shit out of her and she laughed in his face. The bar back always comes to check on me and make sure I have enough beer on hand. The bar manager makes sure I have a Captain and Coke and checks to see how much money I’m making. “Better than some, worse than others” I tell her.
You walk in. Okay, I think, as we exchange a long glance as you walk by. You turn around and ask me for a Bud Light. We make small talk. I find out you take Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and Muay Thai and are fighting in Brazil in a couple months. Impressive. You ask me for my phone number as you leave. I’m mildly excited.
The bar closes. Getting the idiots out without incident is never easy. There are always fights and people requesting we call a cab for them. I check on the bathrooms and sweep my area clean, count my cashbox and tips, report my earnings to the bar manager, and tip the bar backs. I wait for everyone to do the same and we all sit around the main bar. I have driving school in the morning so I smoke the usual bowl with everyone and have only one drink tonight before I make my way home. Shit, it’s already four in the morning.
You call me on my way home and we make plans to go out. We eat at Chipotle and have interesting conversation. You’re cool enough, but I blow you off. You get the hint; I don’t have time for you because I don’t care about you. We don’t hang out again for months. You randomly email me one day. We make plans to go out again. This time, it’s steak. Great conversation again, I’m becoming optimistic about you. You actually may have a chance with me. We go back to your place and watch some MMA “Best of 2008” show on-demand. We make plans to hang out same time next week. Fake it ‘till I make it—yeah, maybe that’ll work.
I forget about you the rest of the week, blow off your emails to me. Yeah, you’re cute. Yeah, you’re into something interesting and different. And you’re stable and have a great career and you seem driven and smart enough. But I’m still indifferent somehow. Why?
We hang out again. This time, you just wanna watch a movie. Fine, I say. You pick a stupid movie to watch, “College”, I think it was. Wow, really? Maybe you’re not so interesting after all. You make a move; we kiss, and then make out. It’s not bad. You’re a little aggressive, but that’s what I expect from a MMA fighter wannabe, I guess. I feel a little closer to you, but on the way home I get cold feet. I go to bed and wake up feeling absolutely zero for you. I blow you off the rest of the week, thinking I’m done with you and never wanna see you again.
I break and email you, asking you if you want to hang out. Of course you do…what am I thinking? You like me…you’re into me. I could probably get you to do whatever I wanted, within reason. You respond yes, to come over at the “usual” time. So that’s the plan. Fake it ‘till I make it, right? Whatever.
You’ll never know, but it’s all too clear to me. You’re not Him. Maybe that’s a good thing. If not, you’ll do for now.
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